


Not the Heroes You Wanted

by Cleb (executive_gay)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: ... wow how to explain this shit, Gen, There is technically a major character death, alternate mighty nein, anyways i dont even know how to begin to tag this so im gonna leave it at this, but she's not a big character in this, just be aware, oh! and cree dies, since yasha dies in this au, though it's not really mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executive_gay/pseuds/Cleb
Summary: What if the Mighty Nein never found each other, but a different group of heroes did? This is a story about a famous courtesan, an ex-pirate captain, a monk of the Cobalt Soul, a goblin alchemist, an ex-scourger, a circus performer with no past, a barbarian who fights with the fists of her dead ancestors, a druid from a graveyard in the Savalir Woods, and the Taskhad of Bazzoxan. Or, as they call themselves: the Mighty Seven.
Relationships: the Mighty Seven
Comments: 19
Kudos: 61





	1. The curtains drawn, the table set

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure whether or not I should apologize for the title, but here we are!
> 
> Big thanks to jakia, who came up with the idea for the m7, to ellybaby and calamityjon for beta-ing, and to the beaujes discord server, cause I definitely wouldn't have finished this without y'all!
> 
> I'll be posting the rest of this throughout the week, so stay tuned!

Jester’s been gone for two years when Marion finally works up the courage to go find her. 

Under most circumstances, she would trust her daughter. She was capable enough; that’s why Marion had let her leave in the first place. (All that Lord Sharpe nonsense was just that. Nonsense. Marion had been dealing with men like him for decades. she could take care of herself along with Jester, easily.)

Marion had known that one day, Jester would need to make her own way in the world, though. And she would never leave of her own accord, no matter how much Marion knew she wanted to. 

Marion had made it quick, because she didn’t want her to leave. The longer she dwelled on it, the more she wanted to drag Jester back into the warm safety of the Chateau, where she could always have Jester near, where she could protect her from anything. 

Jester was nearly twenty now, though, so Marion wrapped her in her arms and handed her a traveling cloak and a bag heavy with gold. 

“Stay safe, my little sapphire,” Marion told her.

“I will momma, and I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Jester said, and Marion knew she wouldn’t be back soon, at least, not for good. She would find her way in the world, and if all went well, she would visit Marion on occasion, but that would be all. She would find her own place in the world. It made Marion want to cry, but she kept it together for Jester, who was just barely concealing her excitement.

Marion stood on the steps of the Chateau as long as she could, before the morning crowds started coming, and there were too many people for her to handle, and Jester was already lost in the rush of people. 

But now, Jester hadn’t written a letter in six months. And Jester  _ always _ wrote her letters. Without fail, every week, she got one in the mail. 

They stopped abruptly. Otherwise, Marion wouldn’t have seen it as a cause for alarm. They just stopped, though. One week she was talking about how she and the band of musicians that she worked with now were going to be headed to  _ Zadash, momma, imagine that! _ And the next― nothing. Marion waited. She assumed the letters would trickle down eventually. So she waited a week, two weeks, a month…

After two months, Marion decided something was up. After four, she decided that she had to do something about it. 

Here she was, six months after the letters had stopped, standing somewhere in the Restless Wharf, (at least, that’s where she thinks she is; she hasn’t left the house in quite a long time) having absolutely  _ no  _ idea what to do from here. 

Really, her plans hadn’t made it past the front steps. She hadn’t really expected this to work. It’s debatable whether or not it is working― everything is so loud and the sky is so wide, and maybe this was a terrible idea, and maybe she should just go back home; the only lead she has is Zadash, and that was six months ago. 

Does she even know which way the Chateau is, though? 

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” There’s a voice at her shoulder. Marion turns around. 

The voice belongs to a woman who barely comes up to Marion’s chin, but it still looks like she’s looking down on her. She’s wearing a sleeveless coat, and her arms are covered in tattoos. A snake covered in eyes wraps around one wrist, while one shoulder is covered in waves and tentacles. She has red hair, which is currently dripping wet. Marion is pretty sure that just… going swimming… is a common practice, at least at this time of year. 

In one of her hands is a curved sword that seems to be dripping wet and covered in… barnacles? That can’t be right…

“Are you just going to keep standing there?” Oh, the woman is expecting an answer from Marion. 

“I was looking for, ah, the…” Marion is about to say the Lavish Chateau, but she stops herself.  _ Jester. _ Jester is probably in danger. Marion can’t just go back to the Chateau, she needs to get to  _ Jester. _

“To Zadash,” she says.

“Interesting…” the woman murmurs to herself.

“Hmm?”

“Interesting. Usually, I would tell you to go find Zadash yourself, but I happen to be going there. And you look like you could use some…  _ help _ , getting there.”

Marion is a bit wary of some random stranger on the streets offering her help, especially one with a sword on such obvious display. It’s not like she has any other options, though. And it’s not like Marion doesn’t have a trick or two of her own up her sleeve. Her singing voice is for more than just show; there’s a reason she’s built up such a following for someone who never leaves her house.

“Alright,” Marion tells the woman. 

The woman holds out her hand. “Capt― or, well, just Avantika.”

“Nice to meet you, just Avantika,” Marion shakes it. “My name is Marion. You may have heard of me.”

“Funny, I haven’t. You’ll have to tell me more about yourself on the way to Zadash.”

┉┉┉┉┉ꕥ┉┉┉┉┉

Avantika won’t admit it to anyone, least of all herself, but she’s gotten herself into a bit more trouble than she thinks she can get out of this time.

She first heard about Uk’atoa through legends and stories, the occasional sea shanty. At first, Avantika was only slightly interested― nothing more than a passing fancy. She heard that he’d guarded the entire Ki’Nau people before being imprisoned by Zehir. She heard that he granted them powers. Avantika had spent most of her life up until this point feeling mostly powerless. Yes, now she had a crew; now she was one of the most feared pirate captains on the Lucidian Ocean… but she’s found that once someone is hungry for more power, they’re never full. 

She followed those stories farther than most would. She followed them to the depths of the seas, to the ends of the earth. Into the eye of a storm.

She really should have paid more attention. To everything. Her crew, who were getting more and more tired of her pursuits of the vague whisperings of legends. To the storm, which was pouring buckets down onto the  _ Squall Eater _ . To this entire thing, this dark entity that she was chasing. 

In the end, she wasn’t sure exactly what happened. 

The storm was steadily getting worse as they sailed further and further in. They shouldn’t have been able to, and yet, the  _ Squall Eater _ ’s sails stayed full of wind pushing her in one direction. No matter how much the waves around them tossed and turned, all the times they were nearly turned over were only that― near misses. 

It was, she thought, one of the worst storms she’d ever witnessed. It could’ve been a sign, that they weren’t dead yet. Maybe Uk’atoa wanted her to find him. She chose to interpret it as such. The other alternative was… well, she didn’t want to think about the other alternative. People didn’t survive storms like this one. 

She could see something, just near the horizon. The sky there seemed to be clear. They got closer, miraculously still going forward, though they should have all been at the bottom of the ocean by then. 

The water calmed, much faster than it should have. 

Avantika had heard of this phenomenon before, in tales. The Eye of the Storm, they called it. She’d been skeptical that such a thing might even exist, that anyone could survive to the middle of such a storm at sea. She’d thought they’d just been tall tales. Perhaps, after this, if all went as she hoped, she’d have a few tall tales to tell of her own. 

She never got the chance. 

It was unclear what happened next. The memories still feel all fuzzy and waterlogged. She does remember this, though:

The night sky, devoid of stars, or the moons, above them. She was sure it’d been daytime, nearly noon, when the storm had started. She was sure they hadn’t been sailing for nearly that many hours. 

A sudden rocking of the boat, sending waves through the otherwise calm black waters. 

Looking overboard, to see what might have caused it. 

A flash of a yellow eye staring back at her, there, and then gone. 

And then, an explosion, blowing up the deck right beneath Avantika. 

Avantika would be pretty sure she drowned, except for the fact that she’s still alive right now. 

She woke up later, under the water, with words echoing in her head. 

_ Learn. Grow. Consume. Reward. _

She can’t remember how much later. It felt like no time, but judging from where she was, with the shoreline of the Menagerie Coast in sight, it had been weeks. That’s how long it would have taken by boat. So really, she didn’t know at all. 

All she knew was that she was too many feet under the water to survive for long. As she swam up, she didn’t think about what was going on. She didn’t think too hard about the curved, barnacled blade in one hand. She didn’t think about the glowing yellow eye embedded in her other. She didn’t think about what those meant after breaking the surface of the water and swimming towards land. 

Avantika didn’t think about anything until she had dragged herself, soaking wet, onto the shore of what appeared to be Nicodranas. That’s when it finally sank in. 

She should have been dead. Everyone in her crew was― her  _ crew _ . Her  _ ship _ . The one she had worked decades to procure. The crew she had spent decades gathering, gaining their loyalty. The crew who had been hesitant to follow their captain into such dangerous waters on the basis of mere legends. 

It could have been them who had sabotaged the ship. There seemed, though, to be greater forces at work. Avantika examined her hand. There seemed to be, well, an eye in it. It was slit-pupiled and yellow, and seemed to be looking up at her. She knew that Uk’atoa was usually depicted as a snake covered in many eyes… So, maybe this was a… good… sign? The sword that she found in her other hand was covered in… barnacles. Well. That was useless. 

She couldn’t sit on that beach forever, so she got up, walked into the Restless Wharf, wandered a bit, and promptly realized that she did not have any of her money on her. It was all kept in the  _ Squall Eater, _ which was now at the bottom of the ocean. 

She wandered for a bit, considering her options. The whole Uk’atoa thing seemed to have…. worked? Avantika wasn’t entirely sure. She needed more information. 

And here she is, back at the Restless Wharf, with no idea where to go. 

Well, she has some idea where she wants to go now: right along the path that’s being so unceremoniously blocked by a red tiefling woman, who seems to just be standing there. She looks confused. 

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” Avantika says to the tiefling woman, because she has not needed to be polite to anyone in the past thirty years, and she is not about to start now. 

The woman turns around and looks at her. She’s wearing something that looks like a mix between a robe and a coat, over a silk dress, and seems to be worth a fair amount of gold. Hmm. She’s still not saying anything. 

“Are you going to keep standing there?”

The woman seems to realize that Avantika is talking to her. She’s a good deal taller than Avantika, but she seems so confused. It’s not hard to look down on her, at least metaphorically.

“I was looking for, ah, the…” the woman pauses and seems to change her mind about something. 

“To Zadash,” she says. 

Avantika doesn’t know much about Zadash. She knows it’s in the Empire; she knows it’s somewhat far off. She’s heard something or the other about there being a magic school in Zadash… The Halls of Irrigation? Addition? That can’t be right…. Anyways. The Empire is famous for its magic, and mages, and what-have-yous. 

Most importantly, Avantika is very much out of gold, and the tiefling woman in front of her looks very much not. 

A plan is starting to come together. 

“Interesting…” Avantika says, just loud enough that the woman can hear her, but not enough that it sounds like Avantika means for her to. 

“Hmm?” 

Perfect. 

“Interesting. Usually, I would tell you to go find Zadash yourself, but I happen to be going there. And you look like… you could use some… help, getting there.”

The woman thinks about it for a second. It is, admittedly, a very shaky plan, that Avantika came up within a matter of seconds. 

“Alright,” the woman says.

Thank the gods, thank Uk’otoa, thank anyone who’s watching at all. 

Avantika holds out her hand for the woman to shake. 

“Capt―” She starts to say  _ ‘Captain Avantika’ _ , as it’s been her name for the last three decades or so, but she remembers. Her ship is gone. She’s the captain of absolutely nothing right now. “Or, well, just Avantika.”

“Nice to meet you, just Avantika,” the woman takes her hand and shakes it. “My name is Marion, you may have heard of me.”

Marion? The only Marion she can think of off the top of her head is― Oh. 

Even more interesting. 

“Funny, I haven’t. You’ll have to tell me more about yourself on the way to Zadash.”

┉┉┉┉┉ꕥ┉┉┉┉┉

Dairon was  _ supposed _ to be on a mission. 

Dairon is, decidedly,  _ not _ on a mission. 

Instead, they are sitting at a table in a run-down tavern, having a drink and relaxing for what feels like the first time in… well, they can’t remember. 

Dairon was supposed to be out here in Trostenwald for… well, nothing important actually. She was an expositor now, no one told her what to do. Her reasoning was something along the lines of ‘gather intel on a plot in something in somewhere, and so on and so on and―’

Really, it was an excuse for them to take a godsdamned break, for once. 

They were following the Amber Road into town when a giant… a giant snake had risen out of the lake, and two figures ran to meet it. Dairon, being Dairon, could never resist an opportunity to punch some monster in the face, so they ran to meet the two figures. 

They were a strange pair, a small elven woman with wild red hair, and a bright red tiefling woman who was wearing some of the most expensive clothes Dairon had seen on anyone fighting a giant serpent. Not that Dairon had seen many people fight giant serpents.

Dairon ran up to the snake and threw a few punches at it. One hit, one missed, leaving room for the snake to bite her arm, which didn’t hurt too much until… oh. Yes, that was poisoned. Great. 

“Hey!” The shout came from the tiefling woman. “Didn’t your mama ever teach you not to…. Ah, hit people?”

It was… a less than satisfactory insult, but the snake seemed to actually recoil from it, like her words actually burned. Nice. 

The elven woman held out her hand, and in it appeared a sword. Not just any sword, of course (most swords didn’t appear out of thin air, to start): this sword was dripping wet, and covered in barnacles. That was a bit strange, though it sliced through the serpent’s hide as easily as any polished blade. 

A few dodges and surprisingly painful insults later, Dairon landed a final punch that slammed the snake back into the water, dead. They looked at the place where it had fallen for a few seconds, catching their breath. It was surprisingly hard to do so; the snake’s poison was apparently still coursing through their veins.

“Hello! You there, ah…” The tiefling walked over to Dairon. 

“...Dairon…” they told her, a bit fainter than they would have liked.

“Oh! Dear!” The tiefling woman went to put her hand on the place that Dairon got bit by the snake, and Dairon flinched away a bit before they felt the healing magic kick in. 

_ “Hey… Dairon... Don't make it bad, take a… snake bite and make it better,” _ the tiefling woman sang. Ah, a bard then. 

“Anyways,” the tiefling woman said when she finished, “My name’s Marion. Thank you so much for helping us fight that snake! Hey―” Marion turned her head to look over at the elven woman, whose sword had disappeared into thin air. “―Avantika! Do you need any healing?”

The woman― Avantika― adjusted the collar of her coat and walked over to the two of them. 

“No,” she said, “I’m a bit bruised, but nothing I can’t sleep off.”

“Okay. That’s probably a good idea, I don’t have much magic left. I should save it. Just in case.”

“Yes. I’m fresh out. Only one spell a day for me…” 

Dairon could see that Avantika and Marion were already moving on without her, their own little pair. She wasn’t welcome there. 

Dairon made her way away quietly, so they wouldn’t even know she was gone. 

“Hey! You!”

Dairon turned around. It was the elven woman, Avantika. They hadn’t thought she’d noticed them until now. 

“Don’t think you’re getting away so easily!”

Dairon paused. 

“You can’t just walk away! We haven’t even gotten you a drink yet!”

“A… drink?”

“Yes, a drink! Do you happen to know where the nearest tavern is, or will we have to find it ourselves?”

Under most circumstances, Dairon would have refused. Most of the time, she would have reasoned that she didn’t have time for drinks with friends when she was out fighting corruption and evil. But… she was technically on ‘time off,’ or at least ‘time where nothing much exciting was happening’. And they were looking at her with what seemed to be such honest intent for friendship in their eyes. Well, the tiefling was. Avantika was looking at her like this whole thing was a challenge. 

Dairon hadn’t seen that look― the friend one, they got challenged quite a bit― directed at them in a long time. Besides, what was one drink?

Now Dairon is sitting with them around a table, counting some newly earned gold (it’s been a while since they’ve done this, hasn’t it?), and sharing stories of past adventures. One drink turns into two drinks, turns into a visit to the traveling circus, turns into a mystery. Two acquaintances turn into two new friends, turns into six. And Dairon finds herself following when they ask her to continue on the road with them. 

In fact, she hardly thinks about it before she says yes, this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering, here are some classes:  
> Marion- College of Glamour Bard  
> Avantika- Pact of the Blade Hexblade Warlock  
> Dairon- Way of the Cobalt Soul Monk
> 
> (chapter title from Taste by Sleeping at Last)


	2. We only speak of a world in peices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is about Yeza and Eodwulf, so general tw for the scourger program, and basically a lot of things featured in Caleb's backstory.

It took Yeza weeks to stop jumping in surprise whenever he’d see his reflection in a puddle, or find that the claws hanging at his sides were actually attached to him, were  _ his _ hands. 

He still does, a bit, a lot, but it’s less in shock now than it is in a feeling of wrongness. It might be better, now that he’s escaped from the goblins themselves. It might be worse. Sometimes he can almost forget for a bit, and then it’s all over again when another person sees him and recoils in fear. 

He wonders if he was able to take any of them out when he escaped. It was a pretty big explosion. Yeza suspects the only reason they didn’t follow him was because it had been… well, an explosion. He doubts that they care enough to follow him, really. 

If Veth were doing this, she’d probably have more tact. Veth was― is (she has to be alive, she has to be, otherwise, what’s even the point?), better at this type of thing: sneaking, hiding. Yeza can’t walk down the street without accidentally blowing something up.

It was a stupid offense, in the long run, that ended up getting Yeza thrown in jail. 

He’s done worse. He stole quite a bit of stock from an alchemy shop a while back, which he still feels bad about. Veth, again, would probably be better at this. Veth wouldn’t worry if the shopkeeper needed those supplies. Veth wouldn’t have felt bad about not being able to leave a few gold pieces in compensation. Veth would have also been smart enough not to spill any dangerous chemicals on the way out, and very nearly fail to escape without being caught.

Veth wouldn’t have been thrown in jail for failing miserably to pickpocket someone who was apparently an off duty crownsguard. 

What’s done is done. Now he’s stuck in a jail cell for a petty crime. And he needs to get out. Technically, he’s pretty sure the punishment for theft is only a week or so in jail. Realistically, though, he knows he won’t get out of here any time soon. Most people wouldn’t let a goblin out of a jail cell if they had any say in it. He thinks that before, he wouldn’t have let a goblin out of a jail cell. There’s a bit of irony in that, or karma, or whatever. It would’ve been nice if karma had decided to prey on someone who didn’t have a wife and a five-year-old at home.

He’s been sitting in this cell for… a while now. Long enough for the sunlight streaming through the small, barred window in the ceiling to turn red, and then disappear and be replaced with moonlight. 

There’s something at the other corner of this cell. Yeza can’t tell what it is exactly. His vision is much better in the dark than it was as a halfling, but he can’t see any colors, and it’s  _ really  _ dark in here. 

He’s just about to decide that it’s nothing but a pile of very dirty rags when it moves. The former lump of rags― which appears to just be the most scruffy, dirt-covered human man he’s ever seen― coughs.

“Uh,” Yeza says, “hello?”

The human’s head snaps up, eyes widening. He scoots back into the corner of the cell he seems to have been sleeping in. 

“Hello?” Yeza says again. “How… what… how long have you been in here?” 

“I, ah…” The man has a Zemnian accent, and his voice sounds like it hasn’t been used in years. “Hello.. there?”

“Yeah. Hi. You look like you’ve, uh, been here… a while… uh, no offense.”

The man looks down at himself. Yeza has been living on the streets for the last few weeks, so he’s not exactly clean, but this man looks like he literally took a handful of mud and used it for soap. 

“I have, ah, been here since… this morning? Could have been afternoon. I am not too good at keeping track of time.”

“Hmm. Okay. Any idea how to get out of here?”

“Not really. Do you have any?”

“Well, uh.” Yeza thinks for a second. “No.”

“Hmm.”

They lapse into silence. 

Yeza startles again when the ex-pile-of-rags speaks. “You were… looking to get out of here?”

“Uh, yeah? We’re in a prison, that's what people do in prison, they get out.”

The man looks like he’s going to contradict him, but thinks better of it. “How do you think we might get out, then?”

“I was hoping you’d have some idea, honestly. I’m only really good at blowing things up.”

“Mm. Well, I was not exactly making any huge escape plans until now.” He pauses. “I am. Ah, also, alright at blowing things up.”

Yeza thinks for a bit. “Okay. So what can we do with explosions?”

“We could… create… we could create a distraction?”

“Yeah! Yeah. A distraction. Good idea.”

“Alright!” The human/pile of dirty rags leans out the bars of their cell as far as he can and begins to make a complicated gesture with his hand. A second later, Yeza hears a loud boom from somewhere down the hall of cells. The walls around that part shudder a bit. 

A few shouts ring out from what’s either the guards or prisoners in another hallway. The sounds of clattering armor and footsteps come right after.

“Oh shit. Do you have, uh, a wire?” Yeza asks. 

The man fumbles in at least six different pockets in his coat before producing a small copper wire. He hands it to Yeza, who shoves it into the lock. He’s never really done this before, but he remembers reading about it in a book once or twice and saving it away for memory because Veth and Luc might find it cool. Yet again, he thinks that Veth would probably do better in this situation. 

_ Click. _

Yeza shoves the cell door open as quickly and as quietly as he can, which, admittedly, isn’t very quick, or quiet. 

He looks once to see if the very dirty man follows him, and then he rushes through the halls of the prison. It takes them a few tries and wrong turns to get out, but by some stroke of dumb luck they find themselves standing in the clear night air. 

It’s common sense not to linger right outside the prison doors, so they don’t waste any time ducking into the nearest alleyway and taking the back way as far from the prison as possible. It’s not until they’re walking through the edges of town, looking for a place to spend the night, that Yeza remembers to ask for the man’s name. 

The man seems to think hard about the question. Finally, he says, “Well, what is your name?”

Oh. They’re playing this game. Okay. Well, it’s not like he needs to know Yeza’s real name either. 

“Umm..” They’re walking past a liquor store, so Yeza says the first thing he can think of. “Um. My name’s… Bottle.”

To be fair, Yeza has never had to come up with a pseudonym in his life. Yeza  _ is _ sure, though, this is a  _ really  _ terrible pseudonym. The other Yezas in the separate timelines where he has had to come up with a multitude of fake names are laughing in his face right now. It’s too late to take it back. 

Thankfully, the man doesn’t seem to mind. 

“My name is, ah,” He pauses for far too long for someone about to state their actual name. Then says, “Oliver. My name is Oliver.” 

Yeza isn’t really in a place to pass judgment over this type of thing, so he says, “Alright. Nice to meet you Ollie. Can I call you Ollie? I’m gonna call you Ollie.”

“Ah. Okay,” Ollie says. “Nice to meet you too.”

┉┉┉┉┉ꕥ┉┉┉┉┉

Oliver had been going by the name Oliver for long enough now that he was starting to call himself that in his own head. It’s strange. Oliver― or Eodwulf― or whatever the fuck, really… Eodwulf is dead, by most records. Eodwulf might just be actually dead. There’s someone else in his place. A ghost, maybe, or maybe a brand new person. 

Oliver― because that’s the only thing anyone knows him by anymore― doesn’t care, really. 

He’s been trying not to think about it too hard, because if he thinks about it too hard, he has to think about everything that’s happened, and he very much would rather do anything other than think of everything that happened. 

He’d much rather think about right now. How he is going to survive right now, how he and Bottle (which is definitely not the goblin's real name either, but at least they are on even ground) are going to get food for today. Whether or not they should stay here for the night or skip town. 

Bren and Astrid were lucky, at least. He tells himself this, when he is lying awake at night, and all he can hear are the sounds of his parent’s screams. If nothing else, Bren and Astrid got away.

It was his house they went to first. He can still remember it, how he brought his friends to dinner with his family. 

_ You remember Astrid and Bren, yes? _ He said.  _ We’ll be graduating soon,  _ he said. They were so proud of him.

He remembers remembering their whispers after they thought he went to bed. 

Traitorous whispers. 

He had been taught what one did with traitors. No matter who the traitors were: the Empire came before any bonds you had.

He remembers the look on their faces when he slit their throats. It was not even a real dagger― it was made of shadows. There is probably a metaphor there, some sort of symbolism. Bren was always good at that type of thing. 

He must have gasped when he saw the blood soaking the sheets and his father’s nightgown, because his mother woke up. Blinked. 

“Eodwulf?” 

_ Shh,  _ he told her. And then she was dead too. 

There was blood on his hands. 

There was blood on his hands, and when he got back to the others, Bren and Astrid, It was still there. 

There was blood on his hands, and it finally hit him, on the path through the fields to Astrid’s parents’ house, that it was his mother’s blood. His father’s blood. 

He had― he had done that.

Oliver, or Eodwulf, as his name had been then, does not remember much after that. He remembers looking into Astrid and Bren’s eyes, and Astrid and Bren looking back. The last time he did. He remembers not saying the words out loud, but them understanding all the same.  _ This was a terrible mistake. This has all been a terrible mistake.  _ Run.

He remembers that they did. They had always trusted each other before anything else, before Trent, before even the Empire. Or― that’s what he told himself. 

Actually, he had wondered if it was a dream, most of the time. After he got out of the Sanatorium, he went to Blumenthal. Thinking back on it, it was a terrible idea. Anyone could have seen him. Anyone could have turned him in, or recognized him, or― or something, surely bad. 

But he was not thinking much at the time. He just needed to know, that they were okay, that maybe he had lost his soul in the hope of saving the souls of the people he loved most. 

He had. Something like that. He does not think he deserves near that much credit, really. 

They were there, though, when he went to Blumenthal. They were going to the market, to buy some flour. They brought children with them too. A toddler, riding on his father’s shoulders. An older boy, holding onto his mother’s hand. 

Bren caught his eye, for a split second, and he again realized that he was making a very bad decision. Most days, Oliver thinks that his entire life is a string of bad decisions

Bad decisions, all but one. He has been traveling with Bottle for what he thinks is about a month or so now. Sure, they have gotten themselves in quite a bit of trouble, but they have also gotten themselves out of that trouble. Much faster than Oliver ever did on his own. 

It has been working so well, in fact, that he thinks they might benefit from another friend or two. So when they go to the next town over, after pickpocketing one too many people and escaping imprisonment again, he agrees with the strange colorful tabaxi and the group of… other… individuals, to go to the circus. 

Of course, it ends badly. He really should have expected that. But Bottle says they should wait it out, and Oliver agrees― Bottle is much smarter than he gives himself credit for. So they do. And a few days later, Oliver finds himself and Bottle agreeing to travel with them a bit more, against both of their better judgments. 

There are some nights, when he sits outside on watch, and wonders why he hasn’t left. He wonders why he’s still wasting his time with these people, instead of doing more important things. He wonders why these people are wasting their time with him.

There are many nights when he almost leaves.

_ I am going, _ he thinks.  _ It is time to go now.  _

He sits there, every night, waiting. 

_ I should get going. _

But every morning, he is still there, and he does not leave.

Eventually, he stops trying to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classes!! 
> 
> Eodwulf/Oliver: Conjuration Wizard  
> Yeza/Bottle: Alchemist Artificer
> 
> (chapter title from Taste by Sleeping at Last)


	3. Out of the woods, out of the dark

Cree wakes up in a grave. Or rather, she wakes up under six feet of dirt. She isn’t aware that a ‘grave’ is what this thing she’s trapped in is yet; she just knows that she can’t breathe. She knows she needs to get out. 

Later, she’ll realize that most creatures can’t claw their way out of six feet of earth. Later, she’ll figure that she lacks the strength herself to do so. But now, what she does not know cannot confine her. 

When she breaks the ground, she’s covered in dirt. She’s cold. The sun is bright. Something in her tells her that she needs to survive, that she needs food, and water, and shelter. She eats a rabbit. She finds a stream. She climbs up into a tree to sleep. 

_ Empty, _ is the first word she learns. 

Later, she’ll learn other words. She’ll learn the words for sky, and the words for blood, and the words for moon. But for now, she only knows one.

_ Empty.  _ It’s the word for that feeling that’s inside of her, no matter how much she eats, no matter how close she sits next to a fire. It’s hollow and yawning, and it feels like something’s missing. Like everything is missing. 

She doesn’t know what day it is when they find her. She knows that the sun has come up, and it has set again. She knows that it’s done that a few times now, but she doesn’t know much about numbers. She knows that she’s gone very far from the grave. 

“What’s your name? the smaller one with the long hair asks her.

“Empty,” she says, because it’s the only word she knows. And it’s somewhat right. Who is she? No one. Empty. 

“Where do you come from?” asks the other one, with the scarred face.

“Empty,” she tells him, because she doesn’t know anything else.

She can’t answer any of their questions, but that’s okay, because they don’t ask many. So she stays. And she stays a while longer. She learns things. She learns words for the color of the sky, and the people around her. She learns how to count, a bit, and to read, enough, though she doesn’t bother most of the time. She learns the name for what happens at night, when she sleeps.

_ Dreams. _

Her dreams are a bit weirder than most, is what Gustav tells her. Desmond reminds him that everyone here is a bit weirder than most, so she isn’t too bothered by it. She’s not sure what they mean by ‘weirder than most,’ as she’s only met these people and they seem quite… normal? Normal isn’t a word she knows well, and it’s only ever used to describe others, not them, but… the circus is what she knows. It’s familiar.

It’s early on, when the child comes to her dreams. 

_ Cree, _ she says. She looks like a child, younger than Cree. Or older than Cree. It’s one or the other, definitely. Older, probably. 

_ I’m sorry I lost you, Cree _

The girl keeps calling her that. 

_ Cree.  _ It reminds her of the noises that those small birds make when the carnival is traveling in the early morning.

Is that her name? She knows what names are, now. She knows that she doesn’t have one. When people talk to her, they either say,  _ Hey Empty!  _ Or,  _ quiet one! _ Most of the time, it’s just  _ Hey you! _

_ Cree. Child. _

The little girl is talking to her again.  _ Cree.  _ She thinks she likes that, for a name.

_ Cree, do you remember me? _

She doesn’t remember the child, but she learns who she is soon enough.  _ The Moonweaver _ . She’s a goddess, apparently. Apparently, a goddess is talking to  _ her _ . Orna says that it’s quite a big deal. Cree doesn’t know much about big deals, but she learns about the Moonweaver through stories from the circus, and the occasional tavern goer. 

Cree likes what she seems to be about. Walking your path unbridled. The Moonweaver doesn’t wonder where she came from, what she was like before she woke up in that grave. 

It was a different person, who went into that grave. Cree came out. Cree doesn’t care about whoever was buried in that grave; she doesn’t want to know about who was buried in that grave. Cree just wants to be herself, right now. 

So Cree learns how to use the gifts that the Moonweaver gives her. She paints colors on her fur over the red eyes that won’t go away, like Desmond paints over the claw marks in his face that won’t go away. She learns to tell stories― about herself, about the people around her, about the world. Some might call her a liar. Cree doesn’t mind. It’s not like the truth ever did anything to deserve her telling it.

Cree has been at the circus for just over a year― so she is technically just over a year old― when they meet another lost soul.

It seems to be the circus’ thing, finding the lost ones. This woman is no different. 

She’s very tall, taller than Cree by… at least a foot. She reminds Cree a bit of a thundercloud, large and dark, full of anger and sadness. Cree doesn’t mind. Everyone here came from anger, or sadness, or abandonment. Or six feet under, though that’s not really the point. 

This woman is no different.

“Hello there,” Cree says. She is the first to approach this time, instead of Desmond and Gustav. They are usually the ones to welcome or find new folk. There’s something about this one, though. Maybe the Moonweaver led the carnival to this one, or whatever it was that gods did to make things happen. Maybe it was chance.

“Hello? I’m Cree,” She tells the woman. The woman looks up, finally.

“What’s your name?”

It’s very quiet, when the woman speaks, almost inaudible. “Zuala.”

“Hmm? I didn’t quite catch all of that.”

“Zuala,” the woman says, this time, a bit louder. 

“Zuala. That’s a nice name.” Cree gestures to where the rest of the carnival has set up camp and holds out her hand. “You look like you need a place to stay for the night?”

“I, ah,” Zuala takes the hand Cree is holding out. “Yes.”

“Alright!” Cree says, already pulling Zuala back towards the camp.

The woman’s face retains its stormy look while they walk there, so Cree decides to do what she does best, or at least, pretty well, and starts talking. “Welcome to the Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities, home of the astounding Fire Fairy, the incredible Knot Sisters, the amazing Sword Priestess― that’s me―, Bo the Breaker….”

┉┉┉┉┉ꕥ┉┉┉┉┉

In the Dolorav Tribe, you did not get to choose who you loved. Choosing who you loved was a luxury afforded by those who didn’t have to fight tooth and nail to survive in the Iothia Moorlands; a luxury afforded by those weaker than them.

In the Dolorav Tribe, you loved who would help you most survive. 

They had yet to choose a mate for Zuala, when…. when Yash― but that had not been important. The important part was that whoever they had chosen, it would not have been Yasha Nydoorin. 

Yasha is― was― a promising young warrior, in the eyes of the tribe.  _ Orphanmaker, _ they called her. Because she killed people’s― well, it was a bit obvious. In the Dolorav Tribe, strength was valued over all. Strength, and ruthlessness. Yasha was very much both of those things. 

Zuala was neither of those things. Sure, she was strong; everyone was strong when you lived as they did, but she was not as fierce or remorseless as they wanted her to be. She did not kill people without thought; she was no Orphanmaker. Zuala collected flowers. She sang songs about the stars. 

When the time came, Yasha would have been given a mate to match her in strength and brutality. Someone who would give her strong children. A fitting match to the one everyone said would become the next Skyspear one day.

Zuala was none of those things, but Yasha loved her anyways.

Yasha loved her songs, she loved the little tales she told about every star in the sky. Instead of laughing at Zuala, Yasha looked carefully among the fields they would walk for the slightest bit of color, and she came to Zuala with her hands full of flowers and the smallest of smiles on her face. 

Zuala loved her too. She loved Yasha Nydoorin more than every flower that she found, every song she sang, every constellation in the sky.

_ Tell me about the stars,  _ Yasha said.  _ Which one is your favorite? _

Zuala looked at the stars, and then she looked at Yasha’s mismatched eyes, and she ran her hands through her hair, and she said,  _ You are my favorite star, _ and Yasha smiled and blushed as they stole kisses under the moonlight. 

It had been a cloudy day, like any other in the moorlands, when they’d gotten married. To Zuala though, it had been the most beautiful day she’d seen. They were not wearing anything special. It was not a large ceremony. It was in secret, but Zuala thinks it is still the happiest day she’s had in her life. Probably, it was happier than any day she’ll have again. 

Of course, they knew what they were risking. They knew the rules. They knew the oath that they had taken at sixteen. It was easy though, to ignore all those things, when you were in love. It was easy to ignore all of them, until they caught up with you. 

When they had caught up with Yasha and Zuala, it had been yet another day where the sky was full of clouds. It’s funny, how one day, the clouds can feel soft and warm, wrapping you up and protecting you from the sun, and the next they’re the cold watchers of your death sentence.

She didn’t see it.

When the sword came down at Yasha’s neck, she closed her eyes. She closed her eyes, and opened them, later. A year, a month, she didn’t know. 

She remembered a bit― She remembered thinking,  _ oh. Oh. This is what they must feel on the battlefield, when they are killing people without remorse. This is what I’ve been missing all this time.  _ And then,  _ no.  _

This was so much worse. 

The rest was black. Nothing. Until― 

_ Zuala is in a field of flowers, like the ones she used to love so much. The sky is grey, and stormy, as it always is. There is someone in front of her. Well, not just someone.  _

_ “Yasha?” _

_ It’s Yasha. Yasha. Is she alive? Zuala saw― well, she saw the sword come down on Yasha’s neck, but maybe… maybe… _

_ “It isn’t like that.” Yasha is speaking now.  _

_ “Yasha? Yasha?” Zuala reaches out to touch her, but her hand goes through her face.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Yasha tells her. “I, ah, I am only so real here.” Here? Is this a dream? Where― where is she? _

_ Yasha smiles, that small smile of hers that only Zuala ever got to see. Zuala feels like she is going to break apart all over again.  _

_ “It is… a bit of a dream. And a bit real. It is… complicated, Zuala.” She places one hand on the side of Zuala’s face.  _

_ “I am so sorry,” she says.  _

_ “Sorry? Sorry for what, Yasha, angel―” _

_ “I am sorry that fate put you on this path, instead of me. I am sorry for the darkness that hides your heart. I am sorry for the things that you did. They were not your fault.” _

_ “What? What was not my―” _

_ Yasha speaks again. “I am sorry I cannot tell you more. I am sorry you will have to go on this journey alone. But know that I―” _

_ Yasha gestures around her, and suddenly Zuala can see more figures. They aren’t all as clear as Yasha; some are nearly transparent, others are nothing but shadows. They all are holding swords, though. They are all wearing clothes that Zuala knows well, clothes of the Dolorav.  _

_ “―that  _ we  _ are always with you.” _

_ Yasha takes Zuala’s hands in hers and places a kiss on her forehead. Then she is gone. _

Zuala opens her eyes. 

She wanders, for a while, not knowing where she is. She comes upon the strange and colorful carnival camp a few weeks in. The colorful tabaxi woman asks her if she would like to stay the night. She does. She stays the next night too, and the next. And the next. 

Sometimes, she stays up late with Cree and looks at the stars. Zuala will tell her their names, even if some of those names are different from what the Dolorov called them. Some nights, when the moons are just right, and the stars are just bright enough that they almost seem to break through the darkness that always wraps around her, she might even tell Cree a story or two. 

One such night, Cree asks her a familiar question. 

“Which star is your favorite star?” 

“Oh. Ah.” Zuala looks down. 

“Oh― I’m sorry, did I―”

“No.” Zuala looks back up at the stars. Cree was the one who welcomed her to the circus. She’s the closest thing to― well, Zuala might actually call her a friend. She’s never really had friends before, but isn’t this how friends work? They make you laugh, and they listen when you talk about the things no one cares about, and they listen when you talk about the things you don’t say with anyone else.

“Her name was Yasha,” she says finally.

“Yasha? A star?”

“Well. I imagine she is there now. She was my favorite star, though. When I knew her.”

“Ah.” It is strange. For someone who has been around for less than two years, Cree knows a lot. Sure, she can’t really read, but Zuala isn’t really good at that type of thing either. Cree, she just knows things. She knows when to say things and when to be quiet. She knows what to say to Zuala, almost always. 

“I loved her very much. She is― ah, she is gone now.” Zuala looks at the stars again, and she sees a particularly bright one in a place she didn’t notice before. Sure, it could just be that she isn’t used to the skies above the Marrow Valley this time of year, but―

“She is still with me, though, at least, I think.”

“Mm.” Cree scoots a bit closer, and wraps her arm around Zuala. “And you’ve got me, too. And Gustav, and Desmond, and the sisters, and Orna― although she can be a real shit sometimes…” 

“I guess she can…”

“And Toya, and the  _ huge  _ frog we found with her. Seriously, did you ever see frogs that big in Xhorhas?”

Zuala is laughing a bit, now. And for the first time in a long time, she thinks that Cree is right. She does have people now. They are not Yasha, no one will ever be Yasha, but… they  _ are _ there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classes!
> 
> Cree- Blood Domain Cleric of the Moonweaver  
> Zuala- Path of the Ancestral Guardians Barbarian
> 
> (chapter title, as always, from taste by sleeping at last)


	4. We’re swallowing light (till we're fixed from the inside)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! this is the last one for here, unless I end up getting any more ideas... in which case I'll put them in another work. Thanks so much to everyone who's commented and left kudos so far! This one... kind of got away from me, enjoy!

Clarabelle was never that good at keeping track of time. 

It’s been a while, she knows, since Mom left with Calliope. It’s been not quite as long since Colton and Corin left, and shorter still since Caduceus left with Dad. There aren’t really seasons in the Grove, so she’s had a hard time keeping track of the years and things. They used to go out more, of course, but it’s not safe for one person alone. And hey, Clarabelle is perfectly fine in here! She’s got the Robinsons to keep her company, and the Von Mussels, and the Smiths, and the Balarons, and at least a few more that she can’t remember… 

So Clarabelle is doing just fine when the strange party of people comes through. Well, she’s getting a _little_ bit worried, since the corruption is getting stronger every day, and she’s pretty sure that the grove won’t last long… but she’s sure that the Mother will send her a sign when the time comes. She’s got a bag all ready for when the time comes, in fact. And hey, here’s her sign right now, in the form of a motley crew of… a motley crew. 

There’s an elf in some nice blue robes, a little goblin, a human man practically _covered_ in dirt, a surly looking gnome, and― hey! A firbolg! Clarabelle doesn’t see many firbolgs outside of her own family.

They ask her if she can heal people, and she says yeah, of course, and when the goblin, whose name is Bottle, shoots the human with a magic missile for good measure, she heals it. And they tell her, hey, we’re going to save some of our friends from some slavers, and that sounds like fun. These guys must be her sign― the one Clarabelle was waiting for, to tell her to leave― so of course Clarabelle goes with them. 

A bit later, she finds out that they recently lost someone. Cree, they call her. Clarabelle thinks― well, a part of her thinks, _oh, here we go again,_ and a part of her thinks, _oh! I know how to do this!_ The second part is a bit louder, so it wins out.

It turns out that these people have a whole lot more problems than Clarabelle knew about at first. Like the elf lady, that they rescued from the Iron Shepherds? Avantika? She’s in way over her head with whoever this _Uk’atoa_ fellow is, and Clarabelle isn’t sure she’s realized it. 

All this time they’ve been on this boat, with this weird crew, on this weird ocean (who knew there could be so much water in one place?), Avantika’s been acting weird too. She’s been sleeping with that Captain Tusktooth guy for information, or something. It’s never really occurred to Clarabelle that someone might sleep with someone else for information, or anything else other than just plain old pleasure, but she’s starting to realize that she doesn’t know much about… a lot of things, really. 

And Oliver seems to have some sort of thing going on, with the whole covered-in-dirt-all-the-time thing, and Bottle is terrified of water, though Clarabelle really can’t blame him, ‘cause this water is… a lot. 

A lot of things have been a lot, lately, and it’s starting to scare her. 

The Wildmother sent her on this path, is what she tells herself. It makes sense that the Wildmother would send her challenges. Things can’t just be _easy_ all the time. So she tries to solve those problems, best she can. She makes food for the Mighty Seven, as they call themselves. Or, she tries to make food for the Mighty Seven. Clarabelle doesn’t have much experience making food for people, but her life has been full of new experiences as of late! What’s one more? 

It’s actually really nice, she thinks, being the adult for once. Back home, she was always ‘Little Clarabelle,’ or ‘Baby Belle,’ or just ‘ _Clara_ belle,’ said in a way that meant ‘ _Clara_ belle, you aren’t cool, you’re too young to go on this adventure, we don’t wanna talk to you.’ Even Caduceus, who was always nice to her, treated her like a baby sister. 

The Mighty Seven don’t treat her like a baby sister. They treat her like she’s the smartest one here, even when she says the _dumbest_ things. 

One time, she can’t remember why, but she tells them something along the lines of ‘things die, but some come back’. It’s supposed to be all meaningful. It sounded very meaningful in her head. It doesn’t sound so meaningful when she says it out loud, but the rest of the Seven nod like she just made the most profound point ever. If Clarabelle had done that back at home, they would have just looked at her, and then Colton would have started laughing. 

So Clarabelle thinks she might stay with the Mighty Seven a while, maybe even after she finishes her quest. 

It’s somewhere between the middle of the night and just before morning when Avantika wakes Clarabelle up in that Volcano. Clarabelle isn’t sure; she’s not that good at keeping track of time. 

“Hello? Are you… are you awake?”

Clarabelle wasn’t awake, but she is now. “Well, I am now.”

“Oh. Alright. I’m sorry. You can go back to―” Avantika winces, and it cuts off whatever she’s going to say next. 

There is, well, quite a lot of blood on her. It seems to be coming from… a stab wound? Right in her chest, just under her collarbone. 

“Oh, man. Oh. Okay. Okay, Okay.” Clarabelle doesn’t even ask what’s going on. She doesn’t do anything before putting a hand to Avantika’s chest and giving her a _Cure Wounds_. A real powerful one, in fact. Wow, she’s really―

“You really, uh got yourself into something, didn’t you?”

Avantika nods. She seems to not have any blood pouring out of her chest now, but her shirt is still soaked with it, and a bit of what’s either sweat, or saltwater… or both. 

“You need to, uh, sit down for a second?”

“Mm.” Avantika nods, her knees buckling as she falls into something resembling a sitting position. 

“Hmm.” Okay. Okay. Clarabelle doesn’t know what’s going on, and it’s honestly scaring her a bit― a _lot_ , and, oh Mother, the smoke in here is making it hard to _think―_

“Okay. Okay. Mind if I, uh―” Clarabelle isn’t thinking that much right now, so she just… up and picks Avantika up. She probably could walk right now, but Clarabelle doesn’t want to risk it. It’s not like she’s heavy, anyway. She’s actually― wow. Avantika is actually _really_ small. Not as small as Bottle, but definitely way smaller than she seems when she’s walking around with her tall boots and her fancy tattoos like she’s the captain of the whole world. 

Okay. Okay. Clarabelle needs to get somewhere where the air is fresh― well, fresher. Okay. So she can’t go outside, that’s too cold, and, uh― oh, it looks like the freshest air is here, but that’s not private enough so, um, ah…

Okay. Okay. This place looks like it’d work nice. Okay. Okay. Clarabelle sets Avantika back down on the ground. “I’m sorry if I― I, uh, I just thought you’d want a private place.”

“Yes, it’s good. This is good.”

“Okay. So. Um, how did this,” Clarabelle gestures to Avantika’s shirt, still wet with blood and saltwater. “How did all this happen?”

“Oh. Yeah. I threw my sword into the lava.” That doesn’t entirely explain the stab wound, but okay. Clarabelle can work with that. 

“ _Oh._ Your sword? The one with all the barnacles? The one that―”

“The one that Uk’atoa gave me, yes.”

“Alright. Why?”

“I didn’t like being held hostage, I realize. That’s what it was. A hostage situation. I wasn’t in any sort of control, god I thought―”

“Yeah.” Clarabelle moves closer to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. Okay. What’s she supposed to do in this sort of situation? She should know, she’s been doing this type of thing her whole life, or, well, something similar. She’s never really done _this_ type of counseling before. If this can be called counseling. Okay. Start with the basics, yeah? Yeah. Okay.

“How do you feel?”

“I… I don’t know. Without my ship… that sword was all I had, you know?”

“That’s not― that’s not true at all. I can promise you that.” 

“Mm.”

“It’s true! I― um, I haven’t slept enough to be able to cast anything, so, um. What― um, do you need anything?”

There’s silence for a bit, and then: 

“Thanks, you know.”

“Thanks? I haven’t really done anything, really, you don’t have to thank―”

“You’re here, yes? You’re you. You’re… saying things, you know? It’s reassuring. It’s, hah, inspiring, even.”

Clarabelle Clay? Inspiring? Wow. That, that was― that was really nice. 

“Wow. You know, that was kind of inspiring, right there. I like being inspiring.” It kind of made it all worth it, that. Leaving home, going on this whole quest, almost drowning, _dying_ once, even. If Clarabelle was, wow, inspiring, reassuring, well. She was doing what she was supposed to. All this crazy had a meaning. 

Avantika doesn’t say anything, but Clarabelle can see her smile. That’s nice. That’s good. This is going well. 

“So, um, your sword? Where’d you throw it?”

“Over there, in the, ah, the pool. I can show you?”

“I mean, if you can―”

“Please. I can walk. You’re very good at what you do, Clarabelle Clay.”

“Okay.”

“Well. I think… I think you’ve made a good first step,” Clarabelle says after they get to the lava, where Avantika’s sword is. Or, was. Clarabelle can’t see much of it. Maybe a piece or two. Mostly, the lava is really bright and glowy. It’s making her eyes hurt. 

“A first step? I threw that damn thing in molten rock!”

“Well. It’s _gone_ for sure. I can’t feel any magic coming from there, so there’s no magic left in that sword… but.”

“But?”

“You, uh. That creature, that Uk’otoa fellow.”

“Him?”

“Yeah. So, you’re uh,” Clarabelle looks for the words. “You’re, fighting… say, a war, with this Uk’atoa fellow. Right now―” She gestures to the lava, where the Sword of Fathoms was, presumably. “―Right now, you won a battle. It was a big battle, it’ll probably turn the tide of the war. But you haven’t won yet.”

“Hmm.” Avantika turns away from the molten rock. “Well… let’s hope we have another sword laying around?”

“Yeah.” Clarabelle thinks back to the pieces of the broken blade she’d found, a bit in Zadash, a bit in Rohsona. “I think we will very soon.”

“That’ll be good.” Avantika huffs out a laugh. “Look at me, I’m nothing but a liability now.”

“No, definitely not.”

“Hah.”

“Really! I’d go as far as to say that you’re an asset, if this Uk’atoa guy wants you so badly.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!”

“Gods, why are you so reasonable, Clarabelle?”

“I have no idea, really.”

“That’s nice.”

“That’s― Hey! That’s like, my line!” Clarabelle goes for a friendly punch on the shoulder, like Avantika usually does. She ends up misjudging and Avantika nearly topples over. Wow, she is _way_ smaller than Clarabelle thought. 

“We should uh, get some sleep now, probably,” Clarabelle says after Avantika regains her balance.

“Yes. Yes, sleep. That sounds good.”

┉┉┉┉┉ꕥ┉┉┉┉┉

Sure, Verin has friends, in theory. Everyone likes him. In theory, Verin Thelyss is one of the most liked people in his den. In practice, well…

Verin has many ‘friends,’ sure, but when one is talking about friends as high up in the Dynasty as Verin’s ‘friends’ are, one is simply talking about allies. Political acquaintances. High ranking individuals who find you interesting and charismatic enough to let you into their club. 

The Mighty Seven, as they call themselves, are no different. Allies. Allies, who stormed into his office, asking to follow someone into the Gates of Bazzoxan. Which is absolutely idiotic. From the ten minutes he’s spent with them, Verin has deduced that this is just how they run: on pure dumb luck and poorly executed plans. 

They should _not_ be as endearing as they are. 

He should _not_ have let them into the Umbra Gates. And he should _not_ have gone with them, whatever Leylas Kryn said. Yes, it would have been a bad idea to betray her orders. Good thing Verin was full of bad ideas, constantly. 

Good― or bad― thing that this was just the type of bad idea he’s prone to following. 

“How do you do that?” asks the wizard, Oliver, after they finish fighting, well, themselves, in that strange room. That might be a bit vague, since every chamber they walk through here is stranger than the last. This particular strange room contained many mirrors, and reflections of yourself that pulled you in and then clawed you to death. Or tried to claw you to death. The Seven had done quite a good job of clawing _them_ to death, actually. 

“Do what?”

“The ah, thing. Where there are two of you?” 

Oh, that thing. Verin is not entirely sure how to explain how he does that thing. “Well, I, ah, I concentrate really hard, and I… think… about there being… two? Of me?”

“ _Fascinating_.”

“What?”

“It is fascinating. It is not any sort of spell, I presume?”

“Ah… I…” Verin cannot cast a single spell that he was not born knowing how to cast. “No.”

“So it is not a spell… but an ability? That you learn, yes?”

“Ah… um, yes, we ah… are taught through military training… if we so wish to take such a path…?”

Turns out, Oliver has a _lot_ to ask about Verin’s echo, and how it works (Verin is unsure), and the magical theory behind it (magical theory? what?), and if there is a common spell for creating one’s own echo (no), and if there is a limit to the times he can summon it (no), and if it is part of this magic the Kryn call ‘dunamancy’ (yes, presumably).

Verin cannot answer a good half of his questions. He thinks that this man would get on quite well with Essek, all their _dunamantical theory_ this, and _arcane equations_ that or whatever they talk about. Essek, however, is very decidedly _not_ here right now. Essek is _not_ here to do his stupid little floaty thing, he is _not_ here to act smarter and cooler and better than Verin in every way. 

So Verin answers Oliver’s questions as best he can, and he finds that he enjoys it more than he expected. It is strange to see someone so… excited… about magic. Whenever Essek tells him about dunamancy, it is with a sneer, like obviously he could not understand something so _important_ as _dunamancy_. Oliver does not talk like that. Sure, Verin does not understand ninety percent of the words he is saying, but he sounds genuinely enthused about it all. And when Verin asks a question, he tries to explain it. He is… passable, at the explanation, but it is the thought that counts. 

Verin did not expect to genuinely like these people. Verin did not expect to actually… care about them? Is this what having real friends feels like? Verin is… wow. He should have tried this ‘friends’ thing before. He should not have ever gotten close to these people. 

It seems that when you almost die with people multiple times, you come to care for each other. Verin has seen many people come out of battles ready to throw their lives away for people they have known for only a few days. 

Perhaps that is what they feel: the adrenaline after battle, cut through by whoops of laughter and yells of, _‘Hell yeah, Mighty Seven!_ ’ The comradery of sitting together in a small dome, all equally tired and bloodied, sharing tea that Clarabelle seems to pull out of somewhere in her pack. (How does she do it?) The trust of almost falling― running― off of a bridge, and a large hand reaching out to grab you. 

It does, of course, all change when the same hand that saves him from falling to his death nearly shoves a sword through his chest. 

It misses. At the last second, Verin throws his echo in front of him. The echo takes the brunt of the attack, disappearing. And before there is time for Zuala’s sword to hit him again, he is being grabbed and teleported away. 

Marion is screaming at Oliver (who is currently a very large gorilla) to _wait, don't close the door OLLIE SHE’S STILL IN THERE_ , and Clarabelle is holding Marion back with one arm, the other wrapped around Dairon. In the few days that he has known them, Verin has never seen Dairon show the barest hint of distress, but now they are shaking, _shaking_ , and are those… well, they must be. Tears. Dairon is crying. 

And Verin, Verin thinks that, ah, yes, this is why he never had friends, because when you have friends, you _lose_ them. 

He tries to comfort them, a bit, afterward. It is hard, since even if he knows them better than anyone else he has known before, better than his damn _brother_ , it seems he does not know them at all. Or― well. 

They have known Zuala for months, or years, he doesn’t even know how long. He knew her for a short few days. And yet, it hurts far more than it should.

They argue a bit. Marion and Bottle want to go back. Dairon says it is a death sentence to go back. Avantika is unsure if she wants to go back for Zuala since she might be evil now. She is evil now. 

“I _tried,_ ” she says. “I _tried,_ I tried to teleport her away… even when she was looking at me like that… all blank… I _tried,_ and….” 

She looks down. “Teleportation spells like that only work if both creatures are willing.”

They are quiet, for a while after that. Verin offers to let them stay in his guest room, at the offices in Bazzoxan. Dairon stands outside for a while. The skies are cloudy; she says she is waiting to see the stars. Verin doesn’t wait to see if the stars come. They look as if they need to be left alone anyways. 

He doesn’t mean to stay with them that night. He means to go back to his rooms. They are bigger. More comfortable than sleeping on the floor like this. 

But they are all so tired. 

The Mighty Seven have been looking for whoever stole the beacons for a good while now. They’ve figured out quite a bit: the beacons are somewhere outside of Rexxentrum, the Cerberus Assembly has found a new one, along with the one they stole from the Dynasty. There is a spy on the inside of the Dynasty that helped the Empire steal the Beacons. The spy is presumably pretty high up in the Dynasty, to have achieved something like this. 

Really, Verin should have known. Verin should have known that there was something up with Adeen. He should have known that it did not add up, that of course, of _course_ the man in charge of his interrogation would be the one planting all the falsities. 

He is with them, when they find out. Verin is not sure if he is thankful for that or not. He thinks― he is somewhat glad, because the Seven has a penchant for killing first and thinking later. And it seems to not be the best idea to derail a plot to end the war, even if it is orchestrated by the same people who had a hand in starting it. 

“We have our mole,” Oliver says, his eyes turning back to their usual hazel as he leaves his familiar, Krissa’s, vision. 

“Ooh! Who is it?” Clarabelle asks. 

“The.. ah, it is the Shadowhand.”

“The Shadow-who now?” That is Bottle. 

Verin shakes himself mentally. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ When he finally manages to speak, he says, “The Shadowhand Essek Thelyss. He is the one who was in charge of interrogating Adeen Tasithar.”

“Thelyss…” Marion says, “That’s _your_ last name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah!” Clarabelle pipes up. “Are you guys… like, cousins or something? Is that how Dens work?”

Verin does not say anything for a few seconds. And then, “No, that is not exactly how Dens work, but. Ah. He is my brother, actually.”

Avantika punches him on the shoulder, in the way that she does. “You never said you had a little _brother_ , Verin.”

“He is, ah, older. And you never asked.”

Dairon looks back at the boat where they had just talked to Essek. In disguise, of course. _Damn it, he should have_ known _._ “Well, I’m sorry. He’s probably going to… well, I think we have to turn him in, now.”

Yes. They do have to. That is what he has known his whole life. His first duty is to the Dynasty, of course. To the Luxon. And Essek has just committed the highest form of treason. Of heresy. 

He never even _liked_ Essek, damn it. Why is he hesitating? Why does he care now? Why does he feel so betrayed? “I… assume we have to. It would be the right thing to do.”

“Wait.” Oliver is looking straight at Verin now, though he is speaking to the whole group. “I feel… it might be a bad idea to act now. I― from what I know, they are planning to return the Beacon. Hopefully it will be the right one. It might be… and I know, yes, this is coming from me, but it might be brash to act right now.”

“I mean….” Dairon seems to turn it over in their head. “Yes. That makes sense.”

Avantika nods. “We should gather a _bit_ more information.”

“Yes, exactly,” Oliver says. “We should wait to tell anyone until the peace talks. We need to investigate, though.”

They turn it over more as they walk back to their ship, _the Mistake._ In the end, most of them actually agree to not act immediately. Of course, seeing their track record, they will see how that holds up. 

“What do you think, Zuala?” Marion asks once the Seven are safe on the deck of the ship. “You’ve been… kind of quiet for this all.”

“Oh. Yes. I have.”

“What do _you_ think?” Yeza asks her. 

“Hmm.” Verin didn’t know Zuala long enough to know if she was a talkative person before she was taken away by Obann, but she seems much quieter now. 

“Well,” Zuala says, finally. “He is your brother, yes?”

“Yes,” Verin says.

“And you care for him?”

He… Light _damn_ it, he does. Essek probably wouldn’t, in his place. Essek never cared about family, or seeing the good in people. Or, maybe he would have. Verin might never know. He has never stolen a Beacon.

“Yes. _Yes_ , I do.”

“Alright. We should not kill him, then. Or, turn him in. Or whatever.”

Verin expects someone to argue with that. But… they do not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classes!  
> Clarabelle- Circle of Spores Druid  
> Verin- Echo Knight
> 
> (chapter title as always from Taste by Sleeping at Last)
> 
> also, hey! i drew them: https://kaetor.tumblr.com/post/618571265607860224/here-they-are-the-mighty-seven-marion-dairon

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone wondering, here are some classes:  
> Marion- College of Glamour Bard  
> Avantika- Pact of the Blade Hexblade Warlock  
> Dairon- Way of the Cobalt Soul Monk
> 
> (chapter title from Taste by Sleeping at Last)


End file.
